


Dreams of Others

by Nonesane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/pseuds/Nonesane
Summary: Hiding out in-between jobs should be an uneventful thing, laying low and keeping out of the cops' search lights. But Eames learned long ago that neither Arthur nor Ariadne can resist a client who might be a target for the Others, and this latest one was sent their way courtesy of Dominic Cobb himself. Resigned to help Arthur and Ariadne play knights in shining armor Eames has no idea exactly how fast this supposed quick-fix project is about to go downhill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [justgotone's lovely artwork](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/113096.html) for the [Inception Reverse Bang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/profile)
> 
> A million thanks to my wonderful beta [boywonder](http://archiveofourown.org/users/boywonder/pseuds/boywonder)!

"Can I go to sleep yet?"  
  
Any normal person would have thrown something at him at this point, or at least heaved a deep sigh. Then again, Arthur was far from a normal person. Arthur-normal was probably closer to robot-normal than anything like human, if you were to ask Eames. Though you'd have to drag that opinion out of him at gunpoint, with the... _circumstances_ being what they were.  
  
"Steadfastly ignoring me," Eames said, more to the room at large than directly to Arthur. "That's not going to get old at all in an hour or two."  
  
No reply.  
  
Eames groaned and let his head lower to rest on his crossed arms, which were resting on the bar disk. Well, former bar disk. This place hadn't been a bar in at least ten years, give or take a month. You could almost see ghosts walking around, without weaving a single summoning spell.  
  
In other words, it was a great place to hole up in-between actual safe houses.  
  
"Yusuf says we can move into the new place next weekend," Ariadne said from her corner at the far side of the room. The beat up leather coach she'd claimed as her own looked as uncomfortable tonight as the first time Eames had laid eyes on it.  
  
"Good," Arthur said, clearly happy to talk to her but not him. No surprise there, really.  
  
Eames opened his mouth to comment on that exact phenomena, worthy of high school students rather than professional dream thieves, when he was interrupted by loud, familiar knocking.  
  
If it had been him and Arthur alone in the room, Eames would have let the knocking continue for at least another minute or two. Cops were one of the few things that could get Arthur really riled up. But…  
  
Eames sneaked a glance over to the corner where Ariadne sat, curled up over her laptop as if cowering from a fucking shootout. For each knock she huddled further into the couch, her knuckles whitening as her grip on the computer tightened.  
  
"Will you deal with that?" Arthur said, giving one of those pointed looks that made Eames feel about one foot tall and covered in dirt.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on." Wouldn't do to move too quickly — letting on exactly how those impatient glares made him feel would give Arthur far too big a head.  
  
Eames got up from his stool and stretched. He pulled at his hair, drawing it out into a long blond mane. One step forward twisted his boots into high heels, the next narrowed his waist and widened his hips. He gave Arthur a bright lipstick smile and a wink before he sauntered over to the door.  
  
No surprises awaited on the other side. The door swung open to reveal the expected blank-faced one-man patrol, with his stupid looking lantern and threadbare uniform.  
  
"Evening, officer," Eames purred, leaning on the doorframe in a way he knew showed his cleavage in the best light. Practice made perfect, after all. "What can we do for you?"  
  
The officer in question went beet red and began stuttering. Such a damn rookie. It was almost adorable.  
  
"Are you here for the grand re-opening?" Eames asked, using his best femme fatale voice. The newbie deserved it. "Love, that's not until next week!"  
  
The officer continued to sputter. Poor sap didn't notice Eames' hand brushing against the lantern as he leaned in close, painted smile coy and seductive. The lantern gave a soft fizzle as it flickered out. "Did you want a sneak peak?"  
  
"I-I, eh, no, no, I was just, uhm," the officer said, taking a step back. "You-, you have a lovely evening, miss!"  
  
"See you around," Eames said with a look he knew to be full of promises. Promises he of course had no intention of keeping. He closed the door without the force he'd wished to put behind the gesture before turning back to face Arthur and Ariadne.  
  
Tension lay like a haze over the room. Eames let his forging drop away in layers, the lipstick fading last. Tattoos returned to his arms, peeking up at the collar of his shirt. He touched three of them in the same order he always did when returning to his real form: upper left arm, left wrist, back of the right hand.  
  
Ariadne gave him a quick, shaky smile. Arthur kept his eyes on the paper he was reading. Or pretending to be reading while listening for sirens.  
  
Eames stifled a sigh, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door. He let a minute or two pass. The tension could still be cut with a knife.  
  
Nothing for it then. "I'll go get us takeout."  
  
No one protested. 

****

The Doberman tattoo on Eames' right shoulder started growling when he was less than three steps away from the door, arms full of Chinese takeout. Luckily he'd spent a pretty penny on its spell-weaving, leaving the noise for his ears only.  
  
"Fucking hell, Arthur," he muttered to himself. At least there was no barking. Yet. "I was gone twenty minutes."  
  
Eames glared at the door. Whatever was happening on the other side of it could hardly be Ariadne's fault. As long as he'd known her she'd always been sensible — a risk taker on occasions, yes, but only when aiming for the lesser of two evils. Arthur, on the other hand, might have been an unimaginative stick in the mud, but an unimaginative stick in the mud who could pull rash decisions out of his ass like nobody's business.  
  
The forging Eames chose this time around was an old classic. No one ever suspected the delivery boy.  
  
He knocked. "Delivery!"  
  
Eames held his breath. Footsteps approached the door and tension drained out of Eames' shoulders. It was Arthur who opened and gave him a disinterested once over, before he said: "Change back. We have a customer."  
  
Chuckling, Eames stepped inside, more or less dumping the takeout on Arthur. Getting an overview of the room was no challenge, thankfully. Ariadne sat on the couch with the customer in question: a woman in her early twenties dressed to the nines, who looked like she hadn't slept in weeks.  
  
"T-this is the third member of your team?" she asked when she spotted Eames, her voice as shaky as her hands. Tea threatened to escape the cup she held, and it took Ariadne's intervention to spare the carpet.  
  
"Mr. Eames is our Forger."  
  
A light of recognition in the customer's eyes told Eames she wasn't a complete newcomer to the work of dreamsharing. Interesting.  
  
Eames let the disguise of deliver boy melt away, putting extra flourish into his transformation. The look of shock and awe this granted him was telling. Not a complete novice, but no experience with a real sharing. _The hell is this about then?_  
  
Arthur gestured for Eames to take a seat, which he did. The woman — the _customer_ — stared at Eames' rolled up sleeves. He smiled as her eyes traced the tattoos that decorated his lower arms. He'd of course made sure to leave the more... _incriminating_ spell work covered up.  
  
"Interested in tattoo work, are we?" he asked her, seeing as both Arthur and Ariadne were caught up with staring at something on Arthur's laptop screen.  
  
The woman shook her head, but smiled nervously. "I don't know much more than the basics. Wouldn't even know where to go to get one done. Properly, I mean."  
  
Very keen on not causing offense. Whatever trouble she was in had to be deep. _Like we need more trouble. This better not be some stupid act of chivalry._ Arthur and Ariadne had a knack for getting caught up in such things, though neither would admit it.  
  
"Mr. Eames is old fashioned in some respects," Arthur said dismissively, and Eames wished there were a camera he could give a deadpan stare into. He might not have seen it, since Arthur sadly was so keen on never taking his shirt off, but he knew for a fact that the man had tattoo work of his own. The real, electric kind of deal that you could sense ten feet away if you knew what you were looking for.  
  
Ariadne cleared her throat, as if to interrupt a brewing fight. "Now that we're all gathered," only they weren't, not all of them, but Yusuf did prefer to stay out of the limelight, "what can we do for you, Miss Weatherford?"  
  
The name didn't ring a bell. Bad sign.  
  
"I…" Ms. Weatherford put her teacup down, ending the tempest she'd maintained in it with an abrupt clatter of china on wood. "I should like to employ you for a dream session. You came highly recommended by a mutual acquaintance."  
  
Eames glanced at Arthur as the last word left Ms. Weatherford's lips and managed not to curse, though it was a close thing. That looking of guilt mixed with determination could mean only one thing.  
  
"What is it Mr. Cobb thinks we're capable of that his fancy, _legal_ dream therapy company isn't?" Eames asked, ignoring the glare that earned him from Ariadne. He pointedly didn't look at Arthur.   
  
"The nature of my problem is...delicate. I should not like it to be part of my medical records, anywhere. I need help, quickly. And I can pay, if that's what you're asking." Ms. Weatherford had placed her shaking hands in her lap and was wringing them in what appeared to be a painful way. Her voice shook too, but there was steel in it.  
  
"You are aware, I hope, of the risks of dream sharing," Arthur cut in, as if Eames' question never had been spoken.   
  
"I am," Ms. Weatherford answered with confidence, "and I think I'm already being exposed to them, so more of it would be no added danger. Especially not with professionals in charge."  
  
"You believe someone has accessed your dreams against your will?" Arthur asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Every night for the past three weeks."  
  
Professionals or no, that answer left all three of them stunned. Stunned and wary, Eames hoped. Weatherford looked like a woman who could afford the very best of security measures and no regular dream thieves would risk their necks like that. Which had to mean…  
  
"Do you suspect that the Others are involved in this?" Trust Ariadne to cut straight to the point, no matter what.  
  
Eames made sure to school his features into a blank mask as Weatherford answered, "Yes. With what goes on in those dreams there's no other explanation that makes sense. I wake up much too tired for them to be ordinary dreams, but I'm sure no one is looking to steal secrets from me."  
  
Ariadne scooted closer to Weatherford and took one of her hands in hers. "What do you dream about?"  
  
"My sister." Weatherford swallowed, audibly. "Only…I don't have a sister."  
  
Oh. Oh, oh, oh. This was heading somewhere Eames wasn't sure he wanted to tread. At least not with Arthur and Ariadne.  
  
To say the silence that followed was awkward would be like saying a barrel ride down the Niagara Falls was a bit of a tumble.   
  
Arthur was the first to break the quiet, closing his laptop and saying, "We'll take your case, Miss Weatherford. We understand your urgency, but we'll need some time to prepare. Go home and we'll contact you as soon as we're ready to begin."  
  
Just like that they'd taken the step right into the fire, with the frying pan still sizzling behind them. Eames would have a thing or twelve to say to Cobb the next time they met. Or maybe he'd go straight to punching the idiot. How did Cobb manage to find these shitty, life-threatening “missions” and why was he always so keen on dumping them on Arthur?  
  
"Thank you," Weatherford said, her shaky smile a little wider. "I can't begin to explain how much of a relief this is to me."  
  
_Should have taken that Heart of Stone charm when I had the chance,_ Eames thought, knowing that he would never. Nor would he ever punch Cobb, much as the man deserved it. Chivalry was not Eames' strong suit to say the least, but he wasn't heartless or stupid. Any win against the Others was good for everyone on the damn planet. Though it would have been good if the police or military could chip in on that front once in awhile.  
  
There was a brief exchange of contact information and then Weatherford was ready to go home, to find whatever sleep she could. Eames hated how much he pitied her. Pity was a crappy, distracting thing to feel for a mark, willing participant or no.  
  
"Again, thank you," Weatherford said as she got up from the couch.  
  
"You're in good hands, sweetheart," Eames said, giving his best boyish grin. It had worked better when he was younger, but judging by the blush spreading over Weatherford's face he hadn't completely lost his touch. "We'll get back to you in a day or two and we'll be very discreet, never you fear."  
  
He offered her his arm and let her to the door. She gave him a grateful smile. Her hands had stopped shaking. Eames hoped his wouldn't start. 

**** 

"So, are we actually considering doing this or were the two of you just bored?"  
  
"We're most definitely 'doing this,'" Ariadne said before Arthur could comment. "Why wouldn't we? The money is good and the subject is willing, for once. I see no reason to turn her down."  
  
Eames stifled a sigh. He knew that look of Ariadne's; she had a project now, someone to fix. Eames wouldn't accuse her of having a savior complex because he'd seen her make smart, self-preserving decisions, but she was crap at ignoring people who were in trouble — especially the ones who actually asked for help. Getting anywhere with her in this mood was as likely as teaching a bear to dance. You _could_ , of course, but it would require more time, patience, and cruelty than Eames were capable of.  
  
Which left Arthur. Fuck.  
  
Ariadne must have caught the glance he threw in Arthur's direction, because in the very next second she closed her laptop and yawned theatrically. "I don't know about you two, but I'm exhausted. Let's leave the planning for tomorrow."  
  
She didn't wait for a reply, only stood and began making her way to her temporary bedroom. Eames fought the urge to mutter "Et tu, meddler" or something equally childish.  
  
Arthur, thankfully, had his eyes glued to his own laptop screen. This left Eames free to at least glare at Ariadne while Arthur mumbled an absent-minded "Night" her way.   
  
And then they were alone. Together. Which shouldn't have been a problem. Eames had worked with Arthur on many jobs through the years, a fair number of which had required close quarter cooperation. But that had been before; before they lost Mal to the Others, before Cobb got himself exiled and roped them all into the crazy scheme that got him pardoned, and before Ariadne and her disturbingly accurate perception of what went on in other people's heads joined the fray.  
  
"I'm not sure we'll be needing your particular skill in this case," Arthur said, eyes still fixed on his laptop. "You can sit this one out if you want."  
  
Ouch. Eames scooted down lower in the armchair he occupied and tried to project exactly how he felt about such a generous offer. Arthur steadfastly refused to look at him. Wonderful. Whatever had gotten Ariadne so pumped up for this one day's notice job — and Eames was fairly sure he knew the specifics of that given that Weatherford was hallucinating a sister but _whatever_ — it had gotten to Arthur too.  
  
Eames gave a snort, to underline exactly what he thought about staying put. "Get locked up in here with Yusuf and his cat? Thanks mate, but I'd rather take my chances with the PASIV."  
  
"Suit yourself."  
  
"Always do," Eames lied. For a split second he contemplated grabbing Arthur by the neck and kissing him, if only to wipe that look of disinterested concentration off his face. The urge passed and Eames got to his feet. "Think I'll follow Ariadne's example and head to bed. Don't stay up too long now."  
  
At least his teasing, faux-motherly tone of voice earned him an eyeroll from Arthur. "I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Eames."  
  
"See you in the morning," Eames echoed. Tomorrow could promise to be one hell of a day. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Pulled an all-nighter I see," Eames heard Ariadne greet Arthur in the early hours of the morning. He thought about getting up and joining them for breakfast, until he heard Arthur answer, "Well, it's that kind of a job. We'll...we'll have to go today. I've already notified Miss Weatherford."  
  
Eames pulled his pillow over his head and halfheartedly choked himself with it. He should have known. He had _known_. But denial was so much easier than...  
  
No further comment came from Ariadne. Eames let himself drift off and when he woken again the clock on his phone read 08.00 am. As good a time to get up and face the music as any. He even threw on a shirt before stepping out into the no-longer-a-bar room.  
  
"Any breakfast?"  
  
Ariadne looked up from her laptop. Arthur stayed focused on his. Great.  
  
"There's some bacon and eggs, if you want it," Ariadne said. "Might be cold though. Yusuf will be here in about two hours and we'll need to be ready to head out then."  
  
"I feel so unloved." As he made his way over to the bar's old kitchen Eames took note of the dark circles under Arthur's eyes and the three empty cups of coffee crowding around his computer.  
  
Eames busied himself with the sad remains of breakfast. Silence reigned. Only the fancy bar clock ticking away the minutes echoed along with the tapping of laptop keys. Really not the mood they should be in before a job. Especially not this kind of job.  
  
The quiet didn't seem to sit well with Arthur either, because after twenty minutes of Eames poking at the dry pieces of bacon he said: "You ready for a debrief or do you need more beauty sleep?"  
  
"Just because you two robo-" Eames bit the inside of his cheek. _Foot right in my mouth. It's too early for this._  
  
Arthur leveled a dark glare at him, the weariness in his eyes giving the look even more of a punch. "Just because the two of us what, Mr. Eames?"  
  
"Nothing," Eames mumbled, stabbing the last strip of bacon with unnecessary force. He sought out Ariadne who looked both annoyed and sympathetic — quite an achievement.  
  
Arthur didn't slam his laptop shut, but the way the screen clicked against the keyboard spoke volumes. He got out of his chair, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. "Yusuf should be close, so get ready to move out in twenty. I need some fresh air."  
  
He didn't slam the door either. Neither Eames nor Ariadne spoke until they'd heard his footsteps fade away down the stairs outside.  
  
"I was out of line," Eames said, meaning 'I'm sorry'. Calling people like Arthur and Ariadne “robots” was a step up from “freaks,” but not much of one. "Though I get the impression I'd have been better off actually finishing that sentence."  
  
Ariadne gave a one-shoulder shrug. "You know he hates being coddled."  
  
This pulled an annoyed huff from Eames. "I do, in fact, know no such thing, since he's never spoken a word about it," he said, "except through you. And I doubt he's actively leaving messages."  
  
Ariadne snorted, which was a relief; his slip-up couldn't have stung her that bad then. Eames thanked his lucky star and got her a fresh cup of coffee. "Funny how you're always bringing up how much _Arthur_ hates being coddled," he said.  
  
"I actually like it when people think before they speak." Ariadne cupped her hands around her coffee mug in a very telling manner.  A hackle-raising manner.  
  
Eames leaned against the bar in his most studied, fake-casual way. It was Ariadne's turn to avoid eye contact.  
  
"Uh-oh." Mock surprise was better than panicked screaming. He'd been preparing for the worst, but not _hoping_ for it. "Mission that bad? What have we got?"  
  
It took Ariadne three tries before she could answer: "Arthur thinks Helen Weatherford might be dreaming of a Construct."

*****

By the time Yusuf arrived Eames had almost stopped cursing. He hadn't been saying anything out loud, mind you — Ariadne was plenty on edge as things stood already — but his expression had clearly been giving him away. Arthur had walked circles around him once he'd gotten back from his 'fresh air', shoulders stiff and mouth set in a thin line. Ariadne hadn't been that avoidant, but there had been uncomfortable glances exchanged between her and Arthur, which made Eames feel like even more of a judgmental asshole. Cue more internal cursing.  
  
"Eames! You look like shit."  
  
Eames managed to avoid stepping on Yusuf's cat, who'd started inspecting her new territory the second she was let out of her carrier. "Hello to you too," Eames said, because he was far too tense and tired to start a game of mutual ribbing. "Thought you'd stay the hell away from this one."  
  
Yusuf shrugged in a “what can you do?” type of way and shooed his cat off the bar. "I could use the money and the subject wouldn't be the first rich person to splurge on expensive dream therapy off the books. Everyone is paranoid of...well, you know."  
  
Eames knew all too well. With people jumping at shadows left and right, shouting “Others!” at the most ordinary of nightmares, getting the authorities to take any tip seriously took serious bribes. That said, one didn't want to become known as the next potential “target.” _As if we're actually at war instead of just being toyed with._  
  
"Debrief in the car," Arthur cut in. "Let's move, people!"  
  
"B-but I just got here!" Yusuf protested, as much good as that would do him.  
  
"Then you're already packed," came Arthur's reply. He was already halfway out the door.  
  
Eames rolled his eyes, but helped Ariadne and the none-too-happy Yusuf get the rest of their gear out to the car. Thankfully Arthur let Ariadne drive; liters of coffee were good for keeping awake and talking, not so much for getting a car safely from Point A to Point B.  
  
Arthur took shotgun, leaving Yusuf and Eames in the backseat with the hastily gathered mission documents. It was a sadly thin folder.  
  
"Our subject's name is Helen Weatherford," Arthur said when all the car doors were closed, "who for the past three weeks has been dreaming of a sibling she's never had. Weatherford is heir to quite a bit of money and new to the world of dreamsharing from what my research shows."  
  
"Research you started last night and finished this morning," Eames grumbled, only go be ignored  
  
. "Weatherford has no connections to any known military or magical fields of work, but her mother has money to spare and close ties to several political figures of note." Arthur gestured at the thin folder and Eames obliged in opening it. He had to raise an eyebrow at the list of names. “Of note” was a bit of an understatement. "Also there are no records of Weatherford ever having had siblings, stillborn or otherwise. If there was a cover-up they put a lot of effort into it."  
  
Effort Arthur might have seen through if they'd spent more than 12 hours prepping for this. "So low chances of cradle robbing then?"  
  
"Exactly. But two weeks back Weatherford texted a friend, I quote: 'Dreamed I had an identical twin last night. Weird, huh?'"  
  
Yusuf groaned. "So that's why we're rushing off with our shoes barely tied. I'm starting to regret this."  
  
"You're in the car, so no dodging out now," Ariadne said in what likely was supposed to be a teasing manner. She sounded almost pleading.  
  
Yusuf grumbled some more, to keep up appearances, but nodded in agreement.  
  
"So," Eames said, trying to catch Arthur's eye — a bit of a challenge between front and back seat, "we might be looking at a Construct here. Or it's just a stressed out rich girl having a recurring nightmare."  
  
"Yes." It was Ariadne who answered, leaving Arthur to distract himself with the GPS, "which means either this is nothing or that 12 hours research was pushing it. She's already been dreaming about it for _three weeks._ "  
  
"Point taken," Eames said, distracted by the way Arthur flinched when Ariadne said “it.” _Interesting. And worrying._ Hopefully no one on their team was about to face their worst fear on this mission. Exposure therapy was best done outside of life-threatening situations.  
  
"What's our strategy?" Yusuf asked, cutting through the mounting silence before it had a chance to get awkward. "Please tell me we have a strategy. Assassinated by a Construct is not the way I'd like to go."  
  
Arthur remained suspiciously quiet, leaving Ariadne to reply: "We've all seen Constructs before-"  
  
" _Seen_ being the operative word here," Eames said, mostly to watch Arthur try to hide a flinch, "Followed by _run, the, hell, away,_ and _from_."  
  
Ariadne glared at him in the rearview mirror, before turning her eyes back to the road. "As I said, we've all seen Constructs and know how to avoid them. We can set a trap for it and get it away from Weatherford, which we've also done before. And should worse come to worst, Arthur has a trick up his sleeve."  
  
That sounded about as reassuring as a suicide mission. Arthur kept refusing to speak to or look at any of them. _Not even trying for a false sense of security, are you?_ "Care to elaborate on that, Arthur?"  
  
"...Mal knew a trick. She taught it to me.."  
  
Eames and Yusuf were left sitting in stunned silence. Ariadne fixed her eyes on the road. No one said anything until they were rolling up to a big, fancy house with more garden than most places within city limits.  
  
"We're here," Ariadne said, having parked the car next to a vehicle that looked both expensive and excessive. "I'll go check where Weatherford wants us to set up."  
  
She left Arthur, Yusuf, and Eames in the car, not speaking to or looking at each other. This would be a great time to get the hell out. But... _If I bail Yusuf won't stick around._ The man was no coward, but he wouldn't go through with something as crazy as this with only three dreamers. That would leave Ariadne and Arthur alone to do this, because they wouldn't do the smart thing and leave this for the military to deal with. Eames might know rumors of what the government did to Construct targets, but Ariadne and Arthur likely knew facts.  
  
Eames sighed. He would do the stupid thing and stay. That's what he got for getting too attached to one team.   
  
"All right," he said, making Yusuf start and Arthur actually look at him, "take us through her family and friends, would you?"

****

The room they'd been ushered into was impressive in its furnishing and decoration; the kind of “trying too hard” that either spoke of nouveau riche or old money desperate to prove they still were in the game. Eames' bet was on the latter, going by the ridiculous number of family portraits they'd walked by on their way here.  
  
"Miss Weatherford will be with you in just a moment," said the butler — an honest to god _butler_ — who had led them to the room. "Please make yourselves at home."  
  
Had it been any other job with this team Eames would have taken the butler up on that offer and then some. Arthur might have grumbled about Eames pocketing anything shiny, or eating all of the offered chocolate — and really, when was the last time they'd taken a job with complimentary chocolate? — but Ariadne would have been amused and Yusuf would likely have joined in.  
  
No one was in any mood to eat, or even sit down, much less steal. _Feels like we're at a bloody funeral._  
  
"I'll have a look around," Arthur said, "Make sure the blueprints I found are accurate." And he was gone.  
  
Yusuf was the next to speak: "Better find a restroom. Wouldn't be bringing any rainstorms by staying above, but sitting around waiting is hell when...eh, I'll just go."  
  
Eames watched him leave with a neutral expression fixed in place. The room had been big to begin with, but with only him and Ariadne left in it, the sofa that dominated the center turned into a behemoth and the dressers and paintings loomed over everything, disgruntled royalty in furniture form.  
  
"Get any architect-ing done this morning?" Eames asked, sprawling on the ostentatious sofa to show it who was boss.  
  
Ariadne shrugged and sat down in a pompous armchair. It, together with the sofa and three other equally ridiculous armchairs, surrounded the massive coffee table where all the sweets and fruit plates were holed up. Ariadne didn't even glance at the chocolate. Eames almost asked if she was sick.  
  
"Weatherford will be the first dream, then we'll go with one of the standard layouts," Ariadne said, picking at her seat's left armrest. "We'll need something we all know by heart, in case…"  
  
Eames failed to suppress an ironic smile. "In case a bloodthirsty Construct comes barreling towards us."  
  
"Yeah," Ariadne said, returning his smile with a pained one of her own, "that."  
  
_Another douchebag point for me._ Eames took an apple from the biggest fruit plate and took a bite, despite not tasting it. "Arthur actually has a plan I hope? Other than an exit strategy for this house."  
  
Ariadne nodded. No hesitation. "He hasn't told me the exact ritual, but he's confident it will work."  
  
Another bite of the apple, chew, swallow. Tasted like dust. "He might be, but I must confess myself not so enthusiastic about all this."  
  
"Eames, you don't-"  
  
"If you're about to say 'You don't have to do this' I'd advise you to not be an idiot," Eames said, keeping his tone light and his expression serious. "Not running out on you, sweetheart. I know my limits and I have a few tricks up my sleeve." The fingers of his right hand brushed against the tattoos that covered his lower left arm, left bare to the world what with him only wearing a t-shirt. "I'm the last person here I'm worried about actually," crazy but true, "and Arthur is acting about as rational as a sphinx on mead. I want to know he's got something planned that won't end with him going down a slippery slope."  
  
Ariadne sighed. "So why are you talking to me and not him?"  
  
That provoked a snort out of Eames. _Of all the stupid questions…_ "Arthur can clam up like a champion and you are a great judge of character." Understatements both. And a good way to dance around the question he should be asking. _Just ask!_ "He's not about to pull a Cobb on us, is he?"  
  
"No." No hesitation this time either. Ariadne even looked offended he'd asked. "Eames, I know Arthur and I can be very...uncommunicative about _that_ , but please trust us when we say we know what we're getting us all into."  
  
"Wouldn't be here if I didn't." He really wouldn't be. He'd be on a boat or in a casino miles away, _countries_ away. If he were smart and not so stupidly attached to these idiots he would get up and leave right now. "Just wish I could be more help. Bit in the dark at the moment."  
  
That got him a grateful smile. Very heartwarming, very foolish to fall for — well, would be foolish if he didn't trust her so damn much. "I actually feel the same way, this time."  
  
_Huh?_ Eames allowed himself to raise an eyebrow. "A bit in the dark?"  
  
"Yeah," Ariadne answered, giving a tentative shrug. "This is new territory for me too. I was only taken. Arthur's the one who had a Construct."  
  
Okay, so denying that his jaw dropped at that news would be pointless. "...He _what_?!"  
  
To her credit Ariadne looked genuinely surprised, eyes wide and mouth working to form words without succeeding. There was guilt in her eyes, as if she'd accidentally revealed a secret. No, _exactly_ like she'd done that. "You didn't know?" she said after a long, eggshell-like pause.  
  
Eames stifled a sigh. She had far too much faith in his ability to get under other people's skin. "Ariadne, please explain to me when and why you think Arthur would have shared information like that with me?"  
  
"Well-"  
  
The doors to the hallway opened, interrupting her. Arthur slipped inside and let the doors slide shut behind him. If he'd been listening in Eames couldn't tell. _Super_. Yusuf wasn't far behind Arthur, and only a minute later the butler reappeared, this time with Weatherford in tow. Luckily they'd all found seats before Weatherford joined them — she might not have noticed Arthur and Yusuf's little excursion.  
  
Well, if she had she didn't say anything about it. Instead she waved off the butler and came to a hesitant stop in the middle of the room. "Welcome! Is...is there anything we need to talk about before we begin? I'd rather get this over with as soon as possible. No offense."  
  
Eames had a lot of practise at not rolling his eyes at customers or colleagues. That didn't keep him from thinking, _Yes, why don't we just jump into your subconscious right away with no prep? Not like this is a potentially lethal excursion, noooo…_  
  
Arthur got out of the chair he'd occupied by a door-sized window and moved over to Weatherford. "Miss Weatherford, how familiar are you with the workings of the PASIV?"  
  
"Not familiar with how to build one, but I doubt that's what you're asking," said Weatherford, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I've been under a few times, for therapy. I believe I know the basics about preventing my Projections from tearing you apart."  
  
"Good," Arthur said, "that's a good start. Do you know why most dreamworkers prefer using the PASIV to spellwork?"  
  
More shifting of weight from foot to foot. Eames kept a close eye on Weatherford as she spoke: "I'm honestly not sure. It has something to do with the Others, doesn't it?"  
  
Arthur nodded. "Partly. They do seem to have more knowledge of magic than technology. But the main purpose of the PASIV is to make a dream more like waking life. As I'm sure you've noticed during past sessions, dreams aided by the PASIV are clearer and more logical than spell-aided lucid dreaming. You always keep your own shape and memories in a PASIV dream, and events follow logically after one another."  
  
Weatherford kept her eyes fixed on Arthur as he spoke. She gave the impression of a drowning woman who'd found driftwood to cling to.  
  
"Right," said Weatherford. "Right. So, is that all the info I need? Can we start?"  
  
"One more thing." Weatherford all but jumped when Ariadne spoke. "Are you familiar with the Changeling myth?"  
  
The color drained from Weatherford's face in the span of a breath. "Others stealing human babies and leaving their own children in their place. You d-don't think I-?!"  
  
Ariadne raised her hands in a calming gesture. "No, no, we're sure you're perfectly human. But there is a spark of truth in the Changeling myth. We believe you may be the target of a Construct."  
  
Arthur took over explaining before Weatherford could ask further questions. "A Construct is an exact replica of a person that usually makes contact with their original through dreams. They will act perfectly benign at first, but their goal is to switch places with their victim. They want to go here, after having sent the original to...well, I think you can guess where."  
  
"Faerie," Weatherford said with a fitting amount of disgust and fear, despite her choice of title for the place. Clearly she wasn't some blue-eyed fairy worshipper. "S-so how do we, eh, _you_ stop it? You can stop it, right?"  
  
Eames glanced at Arthur. _Apparently some of us think they can._  
  
"We'll trap it in your subconscious."  
  
Exchanging a look with Yusuf, Eames noted that he was just as taken by surprise at this. Ariadne hadn't moved a muscle, but she could keep a good poker face when the situation called for it.  
  
Weatherford frowned. "Trap it? Like 'put it in a cage' trap it?"  
  
"Sort of," Arthur answered. "A Construct is powerful magic, but it's closely connected to and dependent on its original. If the Construct is destroyed a new one can be created, but if it's locked away in your subconscious it can't harm you and another can't be sent after you. You'll be perfectly safe."  
  
That was an elegant solution, Eames had to admit. A bloody risky one to execute, but it should do the trick. He couldn't help but fix his eyes on the back of Arthur's head as they waited for Weatherford's answer. Was there a copy of Arthur running around Limbo, thanks to Mal and Cobb?  
  
Weatherford made the perfect picture of nerves; biting her lip, swallowing audibly, fidgeting. But there was steel in her eyes. "What do you need me to do?"  
  
"For this to work we'll need to fool the Construct into thinking you trust it." Arthur held up three fingers. "The first thing you'll need to do is convince it that my colleagues and I are your projections." He lowered one finger. "The second thing you'll need to do is tell it you wish it to join you in the waking world, and that you know a ritual that would make that possible, if we go to a deeper dream level and perform it."  
  
"And the third?" Weatherford asked before Eames could beat her to it.  
  
"Third, you have us perform the ritual. It will lock the Construct away for good and leave you safe from further attacks of that kind." Eames couldn't see Arthur’s face from where he sat, but judging from his tone of voice he was giving Weatherford that calm, confident half-smile of his. "Of course should this recurring dream of yours be an ordinary nightmare or a minor hex, we'll deal with that as well. Preparing for the worst-case scenario is just wisest. We're used to adapting our work to changing conditions."  
  
_That's an understatement and a half,_ thought Eames, but didn't say anything. Both Yusuf and Ariadne managed to keep a straight face along with him – he hadn't really been worried about Ariadne, but he had worked long enough with Yusuf to know the man had tells and plenty of them, especially when stressed or tired.  
  
"So all I have to do is make my 'twin' feel welcome?" Weatherford asked. She'd stopped biting her lip. Eames could tell she was wringing her hands behind her back.  
  
"Will that be a problem?" Because he had to ask, even if Arthur and Ariadne were too polite to. He ignored the annoyed glare Ariadne threw his way and locked eyes with Weatherford. "Will it?" he pushed.  
  
It was interesting how a face could flush and pale simultaneously. "No, it won't. At first I actually thought…" Weatherford gave a bitter laugh. "Nevermind. I'll have beds set up for us in another room."  
  
She left. No one said anything. Eames took a handful of grapes and ate them one by one. Better to risk life and limb on a full stomach.

****

"Well that's either a bad sign or unlucky anatomy," Eames said, breaking the mood of silent efficiency that had settled over the room.  
  
Ariadne and Yusuf didn't look up from their work — steering the last two beds together and monitoring the PASIV respectively — but Arthur had nothing to keep busy with and clearly couldn't help himself: " _What_ , Mr. Eames?"  
  
A smile tugged at Eames' lips. Getting on Arthur's nerves was far too entertaining for either of their sake, and far too tempting a distraction under the less-than-relaxing circumstances. "Weatherford looks just as tense asleep as when she is awake."  
  
Arthur didn't even glance at the woman in question. He rolled his eyes, frowned and said: "Get prepared to go under. Yusuf, you're on watch. Set the time to thirty minutes; we shouldn't need more than six hours to deal with this. Wake us up if things go wrong up here. Ariadne is in charge of our signal flare."  
  
Ariadne held up the flare — a copper medallion filled with goat fur and golden thread — and let it swing back and forth for a moment in a hypnotic motion. "I'll go first. Make sure everything is okay."  
  
No one protested; she had the flare and of the people present she was the only one who could claim the accomplishment of having braved _Cobb's_ dreams without his say-so. That garnered one some clout in the dreamsharing community.  
  
While Ariadne settled down on one of the beds and pulled a needle from the PASIV, Yusuf closed his work-bag and made for the door. "I'll double-check that the entire staff knows what's going on. Rather not deal with a cleaning lady armed with a cellphone — back in a minute!"  
  
A minute was all Eames needed. Yusuf closed the door behind himself. Eames pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against, crossed the room, and stopped one step behind Arthur, just outside his field of vision. "When were you going to share your plan with the class? Scared we'd bail?"  
  
Arthur didn't turn around. He was pulling two needles free from the PASIV. "I can deal with the ritual myself. We agreed you and Ariadne would damage control this time."  
  
"Ah, I see," Eames said, voice dripping with false cheer, "you think the muscle don't have the brains to deal with your genius little spell?"  
  
That got Arthur to send a glare over his shoulder. "You can leave if you want, Eames."  
  
Eames clasped his hands behind his back so he wouldn't throw his arms up in pure frustration. Two years he'd stuck around. Two years of the odd side jobs, but always always coming back to the Inception Team. How much more loyalty would a man need to show to prove he wasn't just looking out for number one anymore?  
  
"Like I told Ariadne not thirty minutes ago, don't be an idiot." Eames had always had a talent for not sounding hurt; being around Arthur several days a week kept him in practice. "I just want to know you have my back when we're under. That too much to ask?"  
  
Arthur turned around. His expression was one Eames recognized; he looked like he really wanted to talk about something but thought it would be a great risk to do so. It was a look marks tended to get right before Eames got what he wanted out of them. It sent unpleasant pins and needles up Eames' back every time that look came from Arthur.  
  
"Everything is set!" Yusuf called out as he opened the door. If he noticed the awkward stare-down between Arthur and Eames he didn't comment. "No signal from Ariadne?"  
  
"No flare," Arthur confirmed, "I'm going in."  
  
Eames reached out and took the second needle from Arthur before he could put it back in the PASIV. He got on a bed and stuck the needle in his arm, and the familiar seconds of blankness followed.  
  
The dream Weatherford was creating had no buildings or streets. Trees dotted the landscape as far as the eyes could see — which wasn't far since there were trees in the way. Locating the other took relying more on his hearing than he had anticipated.  
  
"And that makes four of us," Ariadne said as she spotted him rounding a tree. She, Weatherford and Arthur stood in a glade, as close to each other as they could get without touching.  
  
"What now?" Weatherford asked, her eyes darting from one trunk to the other. The slightest rustle of leaves made her twitch.  
  
Sounded like a reassuring recap of the plan was needed. Eames kept quiet, waiting for Arthur to finish threat-assessing the greenery. If he wanted to play things close to the vest he'd get to do all the talking.  
  
His silence earned him an odd look from Ariadne. He ignored her. If Arthur wanted to shake up the dynamic that had settled between them during the past two years with his secrets Eames wasn't going to try and patch it up. _Improv – we're suppose to be good at that, aren't we?"_  
  
Arthur seemed to catch on after a handful more seconds. Unlike Ariadne he didn't look at Eames; he went for the “pretend this is normal” strategy. "Does this look like the nightmare you've been having?"  
  
"Yes," Weatherford answer, letting out a shuddering sigh. "The dream started like it's done since the first time. It just feels clearer with the PASIV."  
  
"So you're sure your twin hasn't shown herself at all yet?" Ariadne asked, sounding like she was picking up the thread of a paused conversation. She was checking the safety on her gun for the third time. "Could it be hiding?"  
  
"Maybe." Weatherford chewed on her lower lip. "Usually she- _it_ finds me within a few minutes and I must have been here at least twenty before the first of you showed up. It's never hidden from me before — or maybe it's not coming?"  
  
Eames gave the trees another once-over. Something was out there for sure, but he couldn't put his finger on _what_. An electric sensation crawled through the air, as if a huge thunderstorm was drawing close.  
  
"We should-"  
  
" **Helen**!"  
  
They all started. The voice that had cut Arthur off had been Weatherford's, but she hadn't shouted; not even opened her mouth.  
  
"Helen!" the voice came again, louder and more ragged. It had been a long time since Eames had heard such animalistic fear in a cry. "Helen, **run**!"  
  
Eames drew his gun, joining Arthur and Ariadne in forming a barrier between Weatherford and the approaching voice. All that could be heard in the glade was Weatherford's panicked breathing and the cry of "Helen! Run! Run! Helen!" closing in on them.  
  
The spark of electricity in the air intensified. The hairs on Eames' arms stood on end. He didn't check if it was happening to anyone else, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the greenery ahead.  
  
A mirror image of Weatherford tumbled out of the bushes. It was dressed in a torn ball gown and had leaves caught in its unruly hair. Blood dripped from cuts on its face and it had lost one of its fancy high-heeled shoes somewhere.  
  
"Therese," Weatherford whispered. Eames glanced back at her and got the impression that she was stuck between running away and running toward her “twin.”  
  
“Therese” didn't responded to Weatherford; didn't even look at her. Its eyes fixed in turn on Eames, Ariadne, and finally Arthur, flickering gaze radiating desperation.  
  
"Take Helen and run!" the Construct shrieked, eyes wild. "She's coming! _She's coming!_ "


	3. Chapter 3

They all stood and stared as the Construct straightened up. Eames lowered his gun — getting a very questioning look from Arthur in the process — and strained his ears. The Doberman on his right shoulder was barking up a storm, but not at the Construct.  
  
"There's something coming," he warned the others. "Whatever that thing is shouting about, it's not good."  
  
The Construct hissed. Not the way a cat would, but in the manner of a very frustrated human. It locked eyes with Arthur of all people and said, through trembling lips, "Spider bite."  
  
Exempting the times Eames had seen Arthur get shot he'd never seen him go that pale that fast.   
  
"Run!" the Construct shouted again, taking a stumbling step back. "I'll try to leave a false trail, just **run**!" And then it ran.  
  
"Therese!" Weatherford shouted after it while Ariadne and Eames turned to stare at Arthur, who still had the complexion of a ghost.   
  
He holstered his gun and, before anyone could beat him to it, spoke. "I'll go after the Construct. You two get Weatherford out of here. Use the signal flare." He took off after the fleeing not-Weatherford without so much as a backward glance.  
  
"But I'm the dreamer!" Weatherford protested. "This will all collapse without me!"  
  
Eames would have agreed with her if the sensation of approaching thunderstorm weren't still in the air. Also, "You're not the dreamer anymore, love. With you this upset we should be swamped by projections now, middle of the woods or no. We all need to get topside, quick, and the usual way for a quick, unplanned exit won't cut it."  
  
"The usual way?"  
  
Eames turned to face Weatherford and held two fingers to his temple, his thumb raised. He didn't need to elaborate further as his audience of one gave a gasp of understanding.  
  
"Don't worry," Ariadne said, clutching the medallion that hung around her neck, "we'll keep you safe. Whatever is heading for us will have less than an hour to search and we're really good at hiding in dreams. We've dealt with much worse odds."  
  
"Right," Eames said, because they honestly had. "I'll go give Arthur a hand. Leave without us if you have to; we'll find our own way out."  
  
Ariadne didn't look convinced, but Eames didn't stick around to try and argue with her. She wouldn't risk Weatherford's life — try to find a way back and help them after getting her safe, yes, but that would hopefully not be necessary.  
  
Following Arthur was easy. Not because Eames was great at tracking people through the woods – he'd not even been camping once, much less taken hunting lessons. But there was a reason Eames' arms, legs, back, and chest were more ink than bare skin; in this line of work you always had to prepare for the worst and the weird.  
  
And weird there was aplenty. The woods had taken on an eerie tone, with no birdsong and no sound of wind despite the tree branches moving. The approaching thunderstorm remained a keen presence, the sky darkening by the second despite the sun not setting and no clouds appearing. All signs of a lot of shit about to hit a big fan.  
  
The trees were thinning out ahead of him, for which he was both grateful and apprehensive. Dodging between trees and elbowing his way through bushes was a crappy way to sneak up on people — the clearing the thinning trees advertised would be easier to run through at least.  
  
A cry cut through the air. If it hadn't come from ahead of him Eames would have doubled back to Ariadne and Weatherford. Instead he sped up.  
  
"Hello, broken doll." A new voice, one that carried. It wasn't loud, it just seeped through everything, as if there were speakers hidden in the trees. It could have been a woman's voice, had it been human. Eames' Doberman went from barking its head off to whimpering. Eames didn't do the smart thing and listen to it. He moved forward.  
  
He had enough self-control to keep a slow, careful pace toward where the cry had come from. This meant he got treated to two more comments from the voice before he saw who was speaking:  
  
"I'll be having the both of you back now," the voice said, in a very matter of fact tone. "You've been causing me far too much trouble to be left on your own any longer."  
  
Eames made sure to stay in cover, to not make any sudden movements that could reveal his hiding place. This was difficult with what he saw standing in the clearing, opposite Arthur and not-Weatherford.  
  
It had the appearance of a tall, pale woman dressed in an extravagant gown of black and dark purple satin, decked out in a fortune of jewelry. Its limbs were long and slender, spider like in their movements, and its eyes the complete pitch black of a bird of prey.  
  
All Eames' instincts told him to run. The Doberman had gone deathly quiet.  
  
"Leave." Eames couldn't read Arthur's face or tone of voice. Not that Arthur was the wear-his-heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy, but Eames' damn job was to figure out all of a person's tells and he'd had six years to figure Arthur's out. "Leave now."  
  
Eames very carefully did not move, while at the same time he tried to get a better look at Arthur's expression. He was clearly furious and terrified — both to be expected and if Eames hadn't been able to tell something _that_ obvious he would have retired then and there — but there was something more.  
  
On the ground not-Weatherford curled up and whimpered. It was hugging its stomach as if covering a wound, but its clothes looked no more torn up than before and Eames could see no blood.  
  
"Little doll," the Other said, all cool dignity and ineffable smiles radiating in Arthur's direction, "it is rude to treat your Lady so heartlessly."  
  
Lady. “Your” Lady. Wow. The only thought that Eames could form after heading that statement was a repeated mantra of _Terribly very not good._  
  
In the clearing no one moved. The Other stood frozen, completely lacking all the little twitches and fidgets that would have made it look human. Arthur stood stock still, trembling with nervous energy, white as a sheet. Not-Weatherford cowered on the ground, an injured deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.  
  
Eames had always had an “airplane safety procedure” approach to danger, i.e. get yourself out of said danger before you assist others. That said, there was a distinct difference between getting out of a tight spot so you could catch your breath and leaving other people to face certain death while you got away scot-free. Especially when Arthur was going down with the plane and Eames was the only one wearing a parachute — poor metaphor as that was.  
  
"I think you'd better listen to the gentleman," Eames said, stepping out into the clearing without much hesitation (and yes, of course he'd hesitated, knowing what he was about to let himself do...).  
  
He'd expected to catch the Other's attention. He hadn't expected the look of recognition that flashed across the Other's face when he did.  
  
"Eames…" he heard Arthur say while pitch black eyes fixed on him and a spine chilling smile spread across the Other's face.  
  
"How interesting," the Other said. "Of all the humans you could have brought along you choose this one."  
  
Okay, so maybe psyching out your opponent hadn't been the tactic Eames had expected from an eldritch abomination. The world was full of surprises.   
  
"Don't-"  
  
"I got the impression you had a certain... _affection_ for this one," the Other cut Arthur off, taking a step closer to where Eames stood. Well, not so much taking a step as doing that bizarre stop-motion-film movement the Others were so fond of. "Was I wrong?" it asked, eyes all the while on Eames. "Or do you simply wish to bring him with you? Eames is his name, isn't it?"  
  
Arthur had pulled not-Weatherford to its feet, but his attention wasn't on her or on the Other. Eames could feel his gaze burning into the back of his neck. He ignored it, only watching the two of them out of the corner of his eye while most of his focus stayed on the Other. Couldn't afford to make mistakes now.  
  
Eames very deliberately didn't take a deep breath before saying: "Is this the part where I'm supposed to go 'Oh no, how do you know my name?' or should we just skip to your kidnapping attempt? Because if you're waiting for screaming and crying you'll be here all day, missy."  
  
"Amusing." The teeth the smile put on display looked human-like yet somehow far too sharp. "You will not have to worry about that, though. You will not be coming with us."  
  
Which meant he'd end the day as a corpse if the Other got to decide. Lovely. Hopefully it would go the “strangle you with my own two hands” route; what Eames had planned worked poorly against distance weapons.  
  
"Wait there," the Other said. "This won't take long." And that seemed to be that. The pitch black eyes left him and slid back to their original target.   
  
"Arthur, now would be a good time to start running!" Eames shouted, though he himself stood his ground. He wished he'd been able to shout “I'll be fine” or “I have a plan” because he was pretty sure both those statements were true — but a) showing your hand to the enemy would be a really stupid move, and b) Arthur probably wouldn't have listened.  
  
"You're the one who should be running!" Arthur shouted back, predictably, as the Other advanced on him like a monster from a glitchy horror game. "I'll be fine!"  
  
At least Eames still could tell when Arthur was lying.  
  
_Fucking idiot!_ "Hey!" Eames shouted, waving his hands above his head. "Look what I can do!"  
  
His forging was poor mimicry, but the way the Other froze and stared at him told him he'd gotten the surface layer right. If Eames lived to never see a smile like the one the Other sported he'd die a happy man.  
  
He heard Arthur shouted "No!" as the Other changed its direction. Eames braced himself.  
  
"We knew you wouldn't be able to resist our bait," the Other said, its smile a slit in the ice of a frozen lake, "but I hadn't imagined you'd bring me a gift as well. It's been a long time since I had a mockingbird."  
  
_And that time will keep getting longer,_ Eames thought, focusing on keeping the not-too-comfortable shape he'd forged. _Just a little closer and-_  
  
All of Eames' rambling thoughts ran dry, as abruptly as a car crash. Arthur had raised his gun. And then he'd aimed it straight at Eames' head.  
  
"You can't have him," Arthur said. The hand he held the gun in shook oh so slightly, but Eames knew he'd hit his target. If Arthur had one talent it was marksmanship.  
  
"So you'll kill him instead?" the Other asked, standing an equal distance from both of them. It sounded far too pleased with the whole situation. "How charmingly dramatic."  
  
"This dream isn't fully yours yet or we wouldn't be in these woods," Arthur stated, very matter of fact for a man so pale he looked like he could use a blood transfusion. "If he dies here he'll just wake up."  
  
In a lot of pain. Half-dreams were hell to recover from if you took the quick route out. Also, him waking up would leave Arthur alone in a dream headed for Faerie, together with a Construct and an Other. Not happening.  
  
"You're so clever, little doll," the Other said, seeming genuinely amused by it all. "It will be good to have you back in my service. But I will play your game first."  
  
A sharp flash of silver was all the warning Eames got. His neck stung, but it there was no sense of curse or hex about, nor any poison. Judging by the Other's ever-present smile it had meant to miss.  
  
"If we play, I'll win."  
  
It was satisfying to see the Other's eyes widen in apprehension. Apparently it knew Arthur well enough to know he didn't make idle threats.  
  
They both turned to watch Arthur. Arthur, who'd grabbed the back of not-Weatherford's head. Arthur's hand gave off the faint, warm light spells gave off when cast in dreams and not-Weatherford's whole body shook as if with a seizure. And then it vanished.  
  
_I recognize that spell-weaving,_ was all Eames had time to think before the Other gave an enraged cry and whirled around. Before he could think he'd drawn his gun and pulled the trigger. Like Arthur he aimed for the head. 

****

Eames sucked in another breath and leaned heavily against a tree. The bark pulsed under his fingers, but it was still a tree. For now.  
  
"Should be far enough," he gasped at Arthur, letting go of his wrist. He hadn't exactly been a willing running partner, but Eames could rival a mule for stubbornness when it suited him. "Now, let's find a nice, quiet place to shoot ourselves and-"  
  
"Eames, you're bleeding."  
  
Huh. Not the way he thought Arthur would go with this conversation. "Of course I'm bleeding, I took a knife to the throat."  
  
Arthur made a sound caught somewhere between frustration and panic. "It's not your neck, it's your shoulder."  
  
That got Eames' attention. "What?" He reached up to touch his shoulder, but Arthur's hand on his stopped him. Follow by a long hiss of whispered curses.  
  
"She stuck a barb in you," Arthur managed to say once he'd run out of new swear words. "She stuck a fucking _barb_ in you! How the hell did you not notice that? How the hell did that even happen!"  
  
Answering “Because my clever escape plan involved deactivating all my shielding spells” probably wouldn't have calmed Arthur down any, so instead Eames said, "Well, that complicates things."  
  
"Complicates things!" Eames had never seen Arthur so livid. Not even that time with the Russian mob boss and the hedgehogs. "A gunshot to the head won't stop Lady Spider Bite for long and now we have to get _that_ out of you before we can leave!"  
  
As life threatening a situation as it was, Eames couldn't help but snort with laughter. "Lady Spider Bite? That's its actual name? Sounds more like a teenage goth-wannabe than a ruler of the Shadowlands."  
  
The look of utter disapproval that earned him from Arthur shut him up, for the moment.   
  
"I got us into this mess, so I'll get us out of it," Arthur said, squaring his shoulders as if bracing for a fight. "I'll negotiate for the release spell."  
  
Eames would have voiced his thoughts on that bloody stupid plan if he hadn't been distracted. Since when did Arthur have a rose tattoo on his left hand? A tattoo with a very, very familiar aura.  
  
"If you stay here," Arthur went on, pacing the overgrown path they'd fled along, "you'll still be in range of the antidote when I receive it. You'll have to get yourself out, but I trust you to see to that."  
  
Splitting up was not Eames' idea of a smart move. He tore his attention away from Arthur's hand and said: "How exactly will you be negotiating then?" He suspected he wouldn't like the answer to that question. "I got the distinct impression you're not its favorite person at the moment, with whatever you did to that Construct."  
  
That look crossed Arthur's face again — the one that said he was about to share a secret even though he thought sharing was a really, really stupid idea. Eames watched him take a deep breath before saying: "I made her like me."  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"I'm not…" Arthur looked like he was preparing himself for jumping off a cliff. "I'm not human."  
  
A beat of thick, heavy silence.  
  
"Arthur," Eames said, "are you telling me you're a fairy?"  
  
Arthur's eyes darkened, clearly not taking the joke at all well. "No you idiot, I'm telling you I'm a Construct."  
  
"Pretty sure I would have noticed if Lady Spider Bite tried to pull a switcheroo on me," Eames said, choosing his words carefully. "And seeing as Mal has been dead for the past four years I highly doubt she could spellweave a tattoo for one of the Others." A nodded toward the roses on Arthur's hand.  
  
Arthur gave a growl of frustration. "That's not what I meant! I've _always_ been a Construct."  
  
Eames blinked. He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that this was going to be the strangest day of his life, but there were limits even to his acceptance of the weird and unexpected. "You sure you haven't been hit with a barb of your own? Maybe a confusion hex? Because you're making absolutely zero sense."  
  
"I am making perfect sense," Arthur bit back, "you're just too much in denial to listen!"  
  
He was right, as much as Eames hated to admit that. Puzzle pieces were falling into place that Eames had spent his six years of acquaintance with Arthur gathering: his abrupt departure from the military after Mal and Cobb had helped him out, how the sparest background info Eames had found on him sounded like a completely different person than the one he'd gotten to know (six years ago he'd been more paranoid about who he chose to work with — he'd read up on Mal and Cobb too, extensively), and how willing he was to take on jobs involving Others.  
  
Eames had figured he was a rich kid turned soldier turned survivor of whatever the hell nightmares happened to you when you ended up in Faerie. Personality changes and a quest for revenge were to be expected after all that. This...this was a bit too much to compute all at once.  
  
"I think," Eames said, very slowly, "that you'll have to elaborate on that. A lot."  
  
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, pulling Eames' attention back to the roses on his hand. He must have noticed where Eames was looking because the roses quickly faded away, into the skin. _Concealment. Should have figured._  
  
"There's not much to tell," Arthur said, his tone brisk. "Mal's spellweaving gave me my own body, as well as cut me off from its control. I never took possession of the human I was a copy of."   
  
"What happened?" Eames asked, more on autopilot than out of genuine curiosity. He was too stunned to feel much of anything.  
  
Arthur shrugged. "Cobb and Mal happened. Lady... _it_ got impatient and went on the offensive. My original didn't make it." He fidgeted, rubbed at the back of his now rose-less hand. "His name wasn't Arthur. Just so you know."  
  
Eames had already known that. Or rather, he'd known Arthur had changed his name. Thought he'd known. _Fuck this day._  
  
"So that's why you've been so paranoid about showing off your tattoo," was all Eames could think to say.   
  
Arthur's thumb brushed over the back of his left hand again. "I thought it wise not to flaunt the one thing that's keeping me from succumbing to mind control, yes."  
  
"Right." Eames grasped for words. He hated being speechless, but there seemed to be no recovery from this. Better stick with the easy stuff: "So what's our negotiation plan?"  
  
The expression of utter dumb shock that got him would have felt like a victory, had the circumstances been better. " _Our_ negotiation plan?" Arthur asked, once his mouth was working again.  
  
Eames nodded. The world might have turned upside down but he wasn't far enough gone to have forgotten that there was an Other out to get them.  
  
Arthur's eyes narrowed. His mouth set in a stubborn line. "You're not coming with me."  
  
"Of course I-"  
  
"Eames you will stay here or god help me I will kneecap you!"  
  
He meant it. He'd hate doing it, that much Eames could read from his expression, but he clearly thought that whatever awaited them at the hand of the Other would be much, much worse.  
  
"All right," Eames said, weighing his options. He held his hands up in surrender. "I'll stay put, wait for your signal."  
  
Arthur watched him for a few seconds longer, searching his face for something. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. He gave a curt nod, tightened his grip on his gun, turned around and began walking back along the overgrown path.  
  
Eames gave himself a minute to think things through. The fact that Arthur was a Construct would take some getting used to but Eames was, first and foremost, pragmatic. He'd known Arthur a long time and it was clear he was in no favor with his “maker,” however Constructs now were made. If Eames had ever been in the habit of relying on prejudice over proof he'd had it knocked right out by his first dream sharing jobs.  
  
No, questioning Arthur's “humanity” was not on the table. Neither was leaving him to face the Other alone.  
  
The barb made the forging difficult. Excruciating, actually. But with what was on the line he couldn't really let something as irrelevant as pain stop him. Backtracking while maintaining the forging was more of a challenge. Good thing he had that mile-wide stubborn streak.  
  
The trees around him had begun to do what an old colleague had called The Changeover Dance. She'd been dead for ten years now.  
  
_And no one will remember you or Arthur even existed if you don't get to the “Lady” first,_ Eames reminded himself, breath burning in his lungs. He sped up.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite running at full speed, Eames reached the clearing a good fifteen seconds after Arthur, who had to have approached the Other with much more care. Eames stopped dead in his tracks and did his best to even out his breathing before stepping out into the glade.  
  
Arthur's eyes grew wide as saucers before narrowing into a glare. "Eames, _what the fuck_?!"  
  
"I think that should be my line," Eames said, mimicking Arthur's voice perfectly. He knew he was getting the body language and expression right too; he'd earned his reputation as the best Forger in the field and he'd known Arthur for years. If he couldn't forge Arthur perfectly he might as well retire. He'd just never imagined a scenario where he'd be inclined to use that skill.  
  
"Most amusing, doll. Whichever one shall I pick first," the Other said, apparently only able to talk in Bond villain speeches.  
  
"You pick me," Arthur said, still glaring at Eames, "and you take the barb out of him!"  
  
Around them the trees kept shifting out of focus. Eames did his best not to look at what was replacing them. This was difficult enough without coming face to face with whatever hellhole reality produced the Others.  
  
"You think you know me," Eames said, addressing the Other and giving Arthur as good as he got when it came to the glaring. "And I bet you think you know Eames. Which one would you say is more prone to displays of emotion?"  
  
" _Me_ , you asshole!" Arthur shouted, taking the bait hook, line and sinker.  
  
"Exactly, _me_!" Eames shouted, raising his voice to match Arthur's. "Back the fuck off, _Eames_ , and let me deal with this!"  
  
The utter betrayal in Arthur's eyes hurt like nothing else — especially as Eames had to imitate it or give the game away. If the world around them hadn't changed so drastically Eames knew he would have gotten a bullet between the eyes for his trouble. As things stood there was only one way out for the both of them; Arthur just didn't know it yet.  
  
The Other chuckled, standing right between the two of them, three paces away from each. "I knew I was right," it said, with a mocking grin painted on its paper-thin excuse of a face. It was talking to both of them, or perhaps mostly to itself. "You've been closed off to me for far too long, but I have kept my eyes and ears on you, broken doll. My kind knows how humans work, and you always were far more human than I intended." An artificial chuckle slipped past its lips — the sort of noise you'd imagine a robot would make to sound more human. "I think we both know how this will end. Your betrayal runs too deep for me to take you back without punishing you, and the damage your friend's spell did to my magic makes your crime twice as offensive. You've seen how badly behaved my other dolls are?"  
  
Eames let his eyes dart between Arthur and the Other, because that was what Arthur was doing — looking at both of them and neither at the same time. Eames could sympathize with the horror Arthur had to be feeling, but he himself was too busy calculating his next move and trying to figure out if the Other _was saying what he thought it was saying_ to feel much of anything.  
  
"If I didn't need you to heal the wound your friend dealt me all those years ago, I would simply kill the both of you," the Other said, in as amiable a tone of voice as a black-eyed nightmare creature could accomplish. "As things stand, you have a bargaining chip, until my patience runs out."  
  
Given the blood thirst that had snuck its way into the Other's smile, Eames gave patience about three more minutes of run time.  
  
"You showed your hand years ago," the Other said, talking to the air right between the two of them. "Come with me and I will spare him. Keep this game up and...well, I'm sure you can imagine. Give up."  
  
"If you hurt him-!" It sounded like Arthur had a hard time forcing the words out past all the rage. Troublingly enough, Eames was too stunned with new information to keep up with the mood — he'd have to pull a fast one or the jig would be up.  
  
_Now or never._ "Fine," Eames said and threw his gun on the ground. "Let's get this over with."  
  
" **No**!" Arthur shouted, but it was too late for him to interfere. The Other had one hand in Eames' hair, the other resting on his shoulder, plucking at the barb hidden under the forging.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Eames," the Other said. It probably thought itself very clever, affecting Arthur's speech pattern if not his voice.  
  
Eames made his eyes go wide in horror he didn't have the presence of mind to feel. His focus was at the hand on his shoulder — twisting the barb until fresh blood ran from the wound, spilling out over his magic. He made sure that grabbing at the hand tormenting him looked like a reflexive move, one meant to make the pain stop.  
  
The Other let him drag its hand away from his shoulder, down to rest against his chest. He knew it could feel his racing heartbeat and judging by the light dancing in its pitch black eyes it was enjoying itself immensely. Over its shoulder Eames saw Arthur frozen in place, corpse white and shaking.  
  
"Did you think you'd fooled me?" the Other said, as pleased as the cat that had caught the canary. It didn't resist his continued grip on its wrist, only brushed its bloodied fingertips against his imitation of Arthur's white shirt. "You're talented, dear mockingbird, but I have met many of your kind. I know your tricks."  
  
"Yeah, I really don't give a crap about that." Eames let the visage of Arthur melt away, shifting back to his own appearance. He could feel the Other's hand locking in place and the tingle of magic activating. He didn't let out a sigh of relief, though it was a near thing. He'd hoped to never have to try out the quality of this particular spell, but at that moment he was thanking every lucky star he had that he'd once been young and naive enough to let colleagues experiment on him.  
  
It was so satisfying to see the Other's eyes widen in shock. He kept his grip on its wrist tight, forcing its palm flat to his chest, right above his heart. He could already smell smoke and burning flesh. _Got you!_  
  
"Surprise," he said, and knew he had to be grinning like a loon, "Arthur isn't the only one with helpful tattoos."   
  
The screaming sounded like an airplane being ripped in half. 

****

Eames woke up feeling like shit. Not the hangover kind of shit, but the kind where you’d swear you'd been run over by a truck yet miraculously survived without visible injuries. He let out a groan and covered his eyes with both hands, ignoring the sharp tug at his wrist as the movement tore out the PASIV needle.  
  
"Oh my god, he's awake!" he heard Ariadne say from somewhere to his left.  
  
"Arthur is back too!" Yusuf replied from the right. By his tone of voice you'd think they'd returned from the dead.  
  
Ariadne spoke again, this time much closer to his face: "Eames, what's special about your totem?"  
  
Eames gave a huff of laughter, then winced. Opening his eyes had been a bad idea. Light clearly wasn't his friend right now. "My totem is a poker chip and no, you can't see it or touch it. Just because I'm in pain doesn't mean you can trick secrets out of me," he said, smiling. His throat felt covered in sandpaper.  
  
In the background he heard Arthur answer the same manner of question, sounding much more put together than Eames, if more shaken. They usually didn't bother with safety check-ins this extensive, but Eames wasn't surprised by it. In fact he was grateful; with a migraine this bad the last thing he wanted to do was worry if anyone in the room had come back as someone else.  
  
The light above him shifted; someone had joined Ariadne in leaning over him. He dared crack one eye open and was greeted by the sight of a livid Arthur glaring down at him.  
  
"Why the hell didn't you tell us you could do that?" Arthur shouted, making Ariadne start and give him a look of pure confusion.  
  
A reasonable question, Eames had to give him that. "I was only about 80…" He attempted to sit up and failed. His chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. "...70% sure it would actually work. Wasn't exactly eager to bet all our lives on it from the get-go."  
  
That did not mitigate Arthur's glaring or make him lower his voice. His next shout was actually louder: "You didn't even know it would _work_?!"  
  
"Well it did."  
  
Ariadne snapped out of her brief silence and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, preventing any further shouting. "Okay, we can deal with Eames' crazy risk-taking later," she said, very matter-of-fact. "What we need to figure out is why we got two Weatherfords back with us instead of one."  
  
Arthur looked taken aback. Eames got the impression that this was a question he'd answered at least a dozen times before and that he now found himself surprised to have forgotten all previous replies to it.  
  
"Funny thing," Eames said, keeping his voice as nonchalant as his splitting headache would allow, "turns out Weatherford actually _has_ a twin sister. Really could have done with some deeper research there, Arthur."  
  
"Wow," Yusuf said from wherever he was standing or sitting at the moment. Eames couldn't be bothered to open his eyes again, and he sure as hell wasn't going to try sitting up any time soon.  
  
"Yup, wow," Eames echoed him. "The Other keeping her wasn't too keen on giving her up, so Arthur and I had to go the extra mile this time around. Speaking of which, I'd love to avoid bright lights and loud noises right now, so keep Arthur quiet for a bit, would you?"  
  
He could sense how much Arthur wanted to keep shouting at him. He suspected Ariadne was keeping him from doing that.  
  
"We'd better go explain the whole thing to Weatherford's staff," Ariadne said, not sounding completely convinced. "They've got the twin locked up in the basement and might already have called the police."  
  
Eames groaned, this time more from frustration than pain. "Better get that done. I'll just wait here."  
  
"Yusuf will stay and keep an eye on you," Ariadne's voice said, from somewhere. "You look like you could use some rest."   
  
As unwelcome as the thought of “rest” was, it seemed Eames wouldn't have much choice in partaking in more of it. When sleep claimed him no dreams waited for him.

**** 

"You sure you'll be okay here on your own?" Ariadne asked, again.  
  
Eames nodded into his pillow. "Trust me, this isn't my first rodeo. Be right as rain in the morning." His stomach twisted. "Better leave me a bucket though."  
  
Ariadne laughed. It was that relieved kind of laugh people gave when they’d survived an explosion or been shoved in front of a car and walked away uninjured. "Don't think the previous residents left any behind, but I'll go out and get you one. With gold filigree."  
  
The moan Eames let out this time was pure theatrics. "You are not wasting my share of the pay on a gold plated bucket."  
  
"I'll try to restrain myself." She hesitated in the doorway. "Arthur will be just outside, if you need anything."  
  
Eames made no comment. In fact he pretended to fall asleep, to avoid that particular topic of conversation. The whole business with the Weatherfords had wrapped itself up all neat and tidy (Helen Weatherford had seemed very ready to accept her new twin sister despite a glaring lack of birth record or living parent to back up Arthur and Eames' story) but he was sure Ariadne had been more focused on him and Arthur than on the “miracle” of reuniting a family. _Nosy woman_.  
  
The door to his room remained closed. He imagined Arthur sitting alone at the bar, left to his own device with Ariadne and Yusuf out looking at the new safehouse. Was he celebrating? Panicking? Bored?  
  
_Panicking,_ Eames’ instincts told him. Well, instincts and a whole lot of past experiences with people in general and Arthur in particular. His “Lady Spider Bite” might have exploded into a thin haze of blood and minced meat, but that was no guarantee she was gone for good — Eames had honestly never tried to outright kill an Other before. So now Arthur had that hovering over him along with the fact that Eames **knew**.  
  
_He's got to be climbing the walls, at least internally._ Arthur might be good at looking cool and collected, but Eames had spent enough time trapped in life-and-death situations with the man to know what sort of reactions to expect from him after the danger had passed. That said Arthur seemed to have some rational thought left in him. He hadn't tried to kill Eames — always a plus — and hadn't told Ariadne and Yusuf more than the bare bone story of who Therese Weatherford was and how they'd all gotten out in the end, and maybe most telling, he'd stuck around.  
  
If you wanted to keep a secret as big as this you either killed whoever else knew about it or you disappeared and started fresh somewhere far, far away. Neither of those things seemed to be happening here, which was as good as written proof that Arthur was trustworthy and also trusted Eames. Plus…  
  
If anyone had told him a week ago that he'd find out a close friend of his was a Construct and that he'd get over that news pretty quickly, he would have been rather doubtful of their precognition skills. But if they'd mentioned what other revelations would keep his mind occupied when the time came, Eames might have believed them.  
  
Having someone around who was ready to almost literally go to hell for you was not only a novelty for Eames, it was mind-blowing. Yes, Eames had pulled quite a stunt to help Arthur out, but there was a difference between having a half-assed plan you hoped you wouldn't have to execute, and signing up for life-long mind control to make sure someone else got to wake up human and whole.  
  
It was this fact, and the theories on which exact emotions had motivated Arthur's actions, that kept Eames' mind going around in circles, more so than the Construct business. It kept Eames awake for another hour, before he drifted back to sleep.

****

It took Eames three days of nauseating headaches and squinting at the barest hint of light to fully recover. During that time he saw plenty of Ariadne, who came in with pain killers and news — apparently the Weatherford job's conclusion had made international fame, hailed as a serious victory over the Others — and a fair share of Yusuf, who smuggled him homemade charms and remedies.   
  
Arthur, on the other hand, had made himself scarce. At least when Eames was up and about. Eames knew this because Ariadne had told him Arthur sat up in the bar every night, right next to Eames' door, like some bloody guard dog.  
  
This awkward dance had gone on long enough. He had to do something or Ariadne probably would. As well-meaning as she was (and as emotionally messed up as he and Arthur certainly were), he was sure any intervention would end in more awkwardness at best and with things being said that he'd never be able to take back at worst.  
  
_Three days_. Eames drummed his fingers against the countertop and did his best to glare holes through the empty liquor cabinet behind the bar.  
  
Arthur froze halfway into the room, the bag he'd slung over his shoulder slowly sinking to the floor. Eames saw in the cracked bar mirror how Ariadne gave Arthur an encouraging smile before slipping out through the front door he'd just closed.  
  
"She didn't lock you in," Eames was quick to say, meeting Arthur's eyes in the mirror. As much as he basically knew Arthur trusted the whole team with his life, now wasn't the time to test that trust. "But I think she thinks we need to talk." One upside of nosy friends was that they made great scapegoats.   
  
Arthur didn't gulp or draw in a deep breath, but judging by the twitch of his eyes and shoulders he was bracing himself. _What does he think I'm about to say?_ Eames mused, letting his thoughts drift a little. _That I'm going to let him down easy? Tease him? Yell at him? Or is_ he _trying to think of a way to let me down without trampling all over my delicate emotions?_  
  
"Before you go." That certainly caught Eames' attention. "Before you go, could you just...just promise to not tell anyone. If you want money-"  
  
Eames whirled around in his seat, caught between confused and furious. Never in his whole life had he wanted to punch Arthur more. "What the fuck are you babbling about? Leaving? _Money_? You think I'm about to blackmail you?"  
  
Arthur met his glare head on, though he'd balled his hands into shaking fists. "I think I'm about to ask you to keep a secret that could get us both killed."  
  
Forcing himself to pause, to remain seated on the barstool, Eames gave Arthur a slow once-over. _Good thing one of us can keep a level head,_ Eames thought as realization dawned on him. Arthur wasn't angry — he was scared. Scratch that, he was fucking terrified! _That's new._  
  
Eames had seen Arthur panic, worry, and set on running for his life. This calm, anticipating terror looked so alien compared to those other more familiar emotions that it brought Eames up short. For the umpteenth time in far too few days he found himself thinking of Arthur as a mark; what he'd need to say to get Arthur to tell all, how he'd say it, when he'd say it. He pushed those thoughts aside, disgusted by this gut reaction. Arthur deserved far better than that — especially after this shitty, shitty week.  
  
The silence grew heavier. Arthur didn't move, but to a trained eye it was clear he was about to shake apart at the seams.  
  
It was Eames who took a deep breath, forced a relaxed slouch, and spoke. "Arthur," he said, in as deadpan a tone he could manage, "I've been sticking around for almost two years now. Why do you think that is?"  
  
No answer. Arthur kept staring at him with that blank, distant expression which screamed of mind-numbing fear.  
  
_Guess we're doing this Ariadne-style: brutal emotional honesty._ Eames just managed not to make a face. _This is going to suck._ "Right, I see that beating around the bush will get us nowhere; which, come to think of it, experience really should have taught me by now when it comes to the two of us."  
  
Arthur flinched. Honest to god flinched. Eames bit back a curse, but soldiered on, "First things first, I couldn't give less of a flying fuck about however you were born, or created, or whatever way you came to be. I happen to have a very close friend who was a river for the first ten years of their life. Do I need to keep up this speech?"  
  
"You-" Arthur cut himself off, pressing his lips together and fixing his gaze on the wall, just to the left of Eames’ head.  
  
"Apparently I do." Eames sighed. "Before you start shouting 'It's not the same!' I'd like to remind you that I'm not stupid."  
  
"I didn't say you were." Arthur made brief eye contact with him, which Eames counted as a victory.  
  
"Looks speak louder than words, darling." Eames made sure to keep the endearment exactly that. He needed to jolt Arthur out of whatever pit he was sinking himself into; hopefully unexpected twists on familiar banter would help that along. "Now, I've had my beefs with Cobb, as I'm sure you know."  
  
That got him a frown. "What has Cobb got to do with this?" More eye contact. _Progress._  
  
"Let me finish." Eames forced his own mounting panic to the back of his mind. It was a helpful trick that had gotten him through far worse talks — he just couldn't recall any of those talks right that moment. "I might have my reservations about Cobb, but before the Others got their claws into her, Mal was a first class genius. I would have followed that woman on any mad goose-chase she could come up with, because there was always a golden egg at the end of it."  
  
That sure got Arthur's attention. Eames continued before he could be interrupted with more questions, "As I've been clear about before — and as you've so rudely implied not believing – I've had dealings with Mal in the past. If she's the one who created your tattoo, I have full faith in it working. So you're definitely your own person and not some plant sent here by the Others. End of story."  
  
"How can you be so sure of that?" Saying Arthur's voice trembled would have been an exaggeration, but there was an undercurrent to it that said Arthur himself wasn't quite sure. Well, if there was anything Eames was used to dealing with, it was self-doubt. But going head-to-head with Arthur's internal trust issues would have to wait for another day. Time for a distraction.  
  
"Who do you think made me my little Deus Ex Machine tattoo?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
Eames wasn't sure if it was the revelation that got this short, stunned reaction from Arthur, or the fact that he'd begun to unbutton his shirt. At this point, he frankly didn't care.  
  
Arthur didn't take his eyes off Eames as the shirt fell open, nor did he speak. Eames didn't take his shirt all the way off, but made sure what he wanted to show was clearly visible. His skin was covered in a mural of clashing tattoos, some frozen in place and some prone to moving, most hidden by concealment charms. Dominating the center of his chest was the image of a tall, burning tree.  
  
"That one is Mal's work, isn't it?" Arthur asked, his eyes tracing the tree's blazing trunk.  
  
"Like yours," Eames confirmed, nodding at Arthur's sleeve-covered arm. He'd concealed the rose on the back of his hand, but Eames could tell it was there still.  
  
Arthur chuckled, a nervous sound. "So you've been running around with that all this time. Guess that proves you did know her before she met Cobb."  
  
"Yeah," Eames said. "Be an odd thing to lie about."  
  
"Not really. Good reference to have in our line of work." That tugging at Arthur's lips was almost a smile.  
  
"I've always been able to get along on my own merit." This was more like it; friendly mockery what was Eames was used to trading with Arthur. He too seemed more at ease, having relaxed his posture and lost his blank expression.  
  
Silence fell between them and although the tension had gone from it, it was far from what they needed.  
  
Eames didn't do his shirt back up. _Better take the plunge._ "Now, are we going to talk about the other elephant in the room?"  
  
That brought the stiffness back into Arthur's shoulders. He refocused his gaze to stare over Eames' shoulder, into the bar's cracked mirror. "What elephant would that be?"  
  
"Come, come now, Arthur," Eames said, shifting closer without touching, "I thought we both agreed I wasn't stupid."  
  
"I never said any such thing." Arthur was still standing in the middle of the room, looking like he had no idea what to do with himself. His arms hung limply at his sides and though he'd probably been aiming for a teasing tone, his would-be joke fell very flat.  
  
Eames sighed and shook his head. He crossed his arms over his chest, covering up most of the burning tree. "Are we going to keep doing this? This will-they-won't-they thing is much more suited for daytime TV dramas."  
  
"Eames," Arthur said, sounding half-choked, "I can't."  
  
If Eames hadn't been expecting a line like that he might have been discouraged. Instead he let his arms fall to his sides, took a step closer to Arthur (who didn't step back) and said, "I'm not hearing 'No, Eames, I'm not interested.' In fact, I'm getting quite the opposite impression." Arthur's eyes were wandering again, and his tongue had darted out to lick his lower lip in a telling gesture. "So why can't you?"  
  
Arthur brought a hand up to cover his eyes, rubbing them as if he had a mounting headache. "I can't believe I have to spell this out for you: _I'm not human!_ "  
  
It probably wouldn't have gone over well if Eames started laughing at that, so he held back. He couldn't keep the relieved smile off his face though. If _that_ was all…"Did I mention that my river-friend is more of a friends-with-benefits?"  
  
The hand lowered from Arthur's face. Was that jealousy Eames saw? _Happy day._  
  
"I'm not blind, Arthur," Eames said, because he really wasn't. "Unless you've been paying people to pretend at one night stands with you, you're not exactly celibate." He let a hint of jealousy creep into his voice here, to be as obvious as he could. Obvious seemed to be the way to go today.  
  
"That's different," came Arthur's reply. He'd started fiddling with one of his cufflinks. " _They_ were different."  
  
"Why? 'Cause they didn't know?" Eames dared another step closer. There was little more than a foot of space between them now.  
  
Arthur shrugged. It was a decidedly un-Arthur-like gesture.  
  
"No, that can't be it," Eames mused out loud, trying to catch and hold Arthur's gaze. "I've known you for six damn years and only found out about this three days ago. So why not me? What have I been doing wrong?"  
  
"Nothing!" That answer came quicker than Eames had expected. It was Arthur's turn to cross his arms over his chest, hunching in on himself. "It's just...you flirt with a lot of people, Eames. It's hard to tell when you're being serious. When I finally figured out you were, well, interested, we'd gotten to know each other too well. Too risky. Adding to that, other things soon got out of hand."  
  
They were treading closer to another question that needed answering. Eames hesitated, then reached out and put his hands on Arthur's upper arms. Arthur's eyes snapped up to meet his, as if Eames' touch had sent an electric shock through him. "You gonna tell me how that Other knew my face?"   
  
Arthur flinched, but didn't pull away. His arms felt painfully tense under Eames' hands. "I…" He took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. "There was no mind-reading involved, if that's what you're worried about."  
  
"Didn't think that," Eames murmured, stopping himself from giving Arthur's arms a gentle squeeze. He felt more than saw Arthur's shoulders sag.  
  
Arthur licked his lips again, frowning in concentration. "When…" He paused, looking to be searching for words. He leaned into Eames' touch, though Eames couldn't tell if it was a conscious action on Arthur's part or not. "The Others aren't exactly known for their short attention spans and on top of that, Mal's spell messed up... _her_ magic royally. This...this wasn't my first close call with her or her search parties."  
  
So that was what being punched in the stomach with a bucket of ice felt like. Thankfully, years of Forging gave one quite the poker face.   
  
"Most times it was only that, close calls," Arthur had time to continue before Eames could collect himself. "But there was one time it all went to hell, about a year before Ariadne joined the team. It took Cobb three days of dream time to find me, and in the meantime-"  
  
"Jesus _Christ_!"  
  
Arthur caught Eames' gaze and held it, eyes black with emotion. "Now do you understand why leaving would be the smart thing to do?"  
  
Eames did not put his hands on his hips — scolding mother was not the vibe he was going for — so he kept his gentle grip on Arthur's arms. But he did scoff, which seemed to catch Arthur off guard. "How, exactly, do you figure that?"   
  
"Lady Spider Bite-"  
  
Interrupting that sentence seemed like the obvious choice:  "I'm pretty sure 'Lady Spider Bite' is a big red smear in a forest somewhere."  
  
"'Pretty sure' isn't the same as sure."  
  
This was heading nowhere fast. Eames had been on this particular Escher staircase long enough. "No, it isn't. But if you think your creepy ex-boss is the only Other I have out for my blood you are in for the surprise of your life, darling."  
  
Arthur shook his head. "It's not-"  
  
"Here we go with the 'It's not the same' again," Eames said, allowing himself to give Arthur's shoulders that squeeze he'd been holding back. "You are free to do whatever you want with your life, Arthur. You're very welcome not to have sex with me, because a pity fuck is the last thing I want from you, but at least be decent enough to just tell me 'no' to my face instead of carrying on with this 'I must protect you' act."  
  
"It's not an act!" came Arthur's answer. Clearly without checking in with Arthur's brain before launch, judging by the widening of his eyes and the color that rushed to his cheeks. But he stood firm and positively glared holes in Eames' head, daring him to comment.  
  
So of course Eames had to. "As lovely as you would look in shining armor, I think this protection plan of yours is rather moot now. Either your ex-boss is very dead or she's alive with the knowledge that I exist and am a Forger. You think she'll stop looking for me just because we go our separate ways?"  
  
Arthur had the act of going pale down to a T. They should really see about getting him more iron in his diet. "Oh no, I-"  
  
"As I see it," Eames soldiered on, digging his fingers into Arthur's shoulders to stop him from wandering off into his own head, "the two of us can either cower in fear of the unknown for the rest of our lives — which you don't seem to have been doing to begin with — or we just do what we want. Either way we've got targets on our backs."  
  
He definitely had Arthur's full attention. Also he seemed to have stopped Arthur's breathing. Eames could sympathize with that. If talking hadn't required air he'd probably have held his breath too. "So why don't we say screw you to the whole Shadowrealm, or whatever the hell they call their messed up version of reality, and go find a bed?"  
  
Dead silence. Eames had time to rethink his last words about five times in the span of absolute quiet that followed them. His thought process went something like, _Shithellscrewedupshouldhavekeptmymouthshutabitlonger!_  
  
Then Arthur said two beautiful words: "Fuck it!"  
  
Usually, keeping track of who initiated a kiss could be a fuzzy business; they were generally rather distracting. But seeing as how Eames hadn't caught up with the mood change this one was definitely all on Arthur.  
  
It was a long, deep kiss — the kind of kiss that resulted from six years of mutual pining and flirting.  
  
Luckily this was territory Eames felt one hundred percent comfortable with. Sex was generally much, much easier than talking. Talking was likely a thing they'd need to do much more of, but first they deserved _this._  
  
They ended up in Arthur's room, both because it had the bigger bed and because it didn't smell of sick (a vital element for any venue of carnal relations). Eames made sure to keep up the kissing and touching all the way there; while he knew how and when to switch his brain off, he doubted Arthur had the same instinct of self-preservation.  
  
He more or less shoved Arthur onto the bed, but didn't follow. Not getting distracted by more thoughts of doom and gloom were one thing – rushing was another, completely unwanted one. You didn't wait six years to get with a man and then just go through the motions, right?  
  
"Are we really doing this?" Arthur asked, sounding dazed. Lips swollen from kissing looked good on him. Doubt not so much.  
  
"As soon as you get yourself undressed," Eames said, already working on the remains of his own clothes. He’d lost his shirt somewhere over by the ugly couch in the main room. "Unless you're no longer interested?"  
  
"Didn't think I was imaginative enough to be fickle," Arthur shot back in a way that made Eames smile.  
  
"Are you getting out of those clothes anytime soon?"  
  
Hesitation, but only for a second. "I might just enjoy the view instead."  
  
At this point Eames was positively grinning. "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." Cliché as all hell, but it got a huff of laughter out of Arthur so it was worth it. Watching Arthur unbutton his vest and cufflinks was an added bonus.  
  
Eames turned around for the briefest of moments to put his own clothes away on a chair. He wasn't a total slob, thank you very much, and he didn't want something as silly as clothes on the floor to distract Arthur from what they hopefully were about to do. When he turned around he found Arthur wearing only his dress pants, sitting with one knee drawn up to his naked chest and wearing a searching, almost worried expression.  
  


[ ](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/113096.html)  
---  
  
A tattoo of two roses covered most of Arthur's chest and abdomen. To anyone not versed in the ways of magic it could have been mistaken for a regular work of ink. To Eames it screamed of Mal's expert touch.

He gave a whistle of approval through his teeth, partly because he knew Arthur expected it and partly because it was an honestly impressive piece of spell-weaving. Some of Mal's best without a doubt.

"Impressive base," Eames said, nodding toward these two large roses. "I take it the others are reactionary?" Smaller roses bloomed on Arthur's left arm. They formed a vine that reached from the back of his hand to the top of his shoulder, similar but not connected to the two larger roses.

"It grows every time I use it," Arthur said, tracing unsteady fingers over the vine of smaller flowers.

"You know how tempting it is to add a 'That's what she said' to that sentence, right?"

That got him genuine laughter from Arthur. "You're quite something, Mr. Eames," he said a few seconds later when his breath was back under his control.

"I might just be."

He took hold of one of Arthur's wrists. Arthur made no motion to pull free. Instead he let himself be pushed back into the bed, and allowed Eames to help him wiggle out of his dress pants and underwear.

"So," Eames said, letting most of his weight rest on Arthur, gently pinning him to the mattress, "is this the part where we share all the late night fantasies we've had about each other?"

The laughter he'd been aiming for burst from Arthur in an undignified snort. Bit by bit he was relaxing, losing the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look he'd been cultivating earlier. "I'm sad to inform you I have zero talent for dirty talk."

"Is that so?" Eames asked, nudging Arthur's legs apart to settle between them. While relaxed, laughing Arthur was great, that wasn't all he was aiming for this time around. "I'll just have to put in the effort for both of us then," he whispered into Arthur's ear, letting his smile be felt as well as heard. The moan this drew from Arthur was even better than the laughter.

"You're ridicu-" That was as far as Arthur got before Eames gave the lobe of his ear a gentle bite.

Eames followed the bite with a trail of kisses down Arthur's neck. "You were saying?"

"I think you're not playing fair," Arthur said, "and that it's time for me to level the playing field."

"Wow, could you sound more like a James Bond vi-" Eames' turn to cut things short. Then again it was hard to talk with someone else's mouth on your own, especially combined with a thigh pressed in between your own, creating delightfully distracting pressure. Arthur had fisted a hand in his hair, directing the kiss, deepening it until they had to break apart to catch their breaths.

Eames allowed himself two gulps of air before he dove in again, settling his hands on Arthur's shoulders for better leverage. Arthur didn't seem to mind. In fact he gave some quite positive feedback in the form of more lovely noises and more pressure from his thigh, giving Eames easy relief should he want it.

So of course Eames had to move one hand to pin Arthur's hips.

"What-?"

"As much as I'm enjoying this," Eames said, trying to keep from panting, "I'd very much like to suck you off first."

"Crude," Arthur mock-scolded, while at the same time spreading his hands in a “be my guest” kind of gesture.

Eames took the go ahead signal and ran with it. He somewhat regretted not having acquired lube for this; spell weaving to protect from disease was a great replacement for condoms, but that was the extent of Eames' sex magic skills for the time being. But you could only come so prepared right after three days with the migraine from hell.

"Well hello beautiful," he said when he got down to eye-level with Arthur's cock. Before Arthur could make any sarcastic comment about this, Eames grabbed his hips with both hands and went to town.

Eames wasn't exactly a master of blowjobs, but he knew he could make up for that with enthusiasm and effort. Thus he began by giving Arthur a lick from base to head, pulling back a little to let his breath brush against the wet trail of saliva. Arthur twitched and stopped just short of writhing, as if he'd been electrocuted.

"Don't think I can make myself take my time with you," Eames confessed, darting his tongue out to lick up pre-come. "We'll have to save that for round two."

"You're very confident," Arthur said — well, gasped. He gritted his teeth against another moan as Eames leaned forward and took the head of Arthur's cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head. "Which," another gasp, "if you keep doing-, doing-, oh, yes, yes, there!"

Smiling smugly with a cock in your mouth was no mean feat — especially if you were a decent person who wanted to keep your teeth away from said cock. Eames thought he must have pulled one off quite well though, judging by the expression of mixed amusement and annoyance that Arthur wore.

This expression quickly melted away as Eames pressed his tongue to the underside of Arthur's cock and began to suck. Arthur threw his head back and fisted his hands in the sheets, letting out more half-choked groans and gasps.

Eames let go of Arthur's hips with one hand, letting it travel down to brush against Arthur's balls. The whimper and spreading of legs this resulted in was something Eames filed away for later use — because hopefully there would be a later. Actually, he was pretty positive of a repeat performance; great audience feedback and all that. He let his finger glide further back, but not so far as he could have gone if he'd been smart enough to bring lube (and if Arthur was into that sort of thing of course — another thing to add to their talk list for later).

Eames knew he'd found the right spot to press when Arthur's breathing stopped altogether and he nearly arched off the bed. An answering heat flared through Eames. Arthur looked fucking gorgeous like this. He didn't let up his assault though, not even when Arthur began a litany of "Please, please, please!" and started to squirm in earnest. It was clear he wasn't trying to get away.

The slightly bitter taste of come hit the back of Eames' throat seconds later. He pulled back, jaw sore and throat raw, panting and full of pleasant tension. He looked down at Arthur who was catching his own breath, eyes dark with lust and hair a mess; he'd pulled at it while trying to keep quiet.

If kiss swollen lips was a good look on Arthur, post-orgasmic was a bloody brilliant one.

"My turn," was all the warning Eames got before Arthur flipped them over, exchanging their positions with military grace.

"Better go easy on me," Eames said to the ceiling, leaving Arthur free reign over what happened next, "or this will be over before you can start."

Arthur leaned into Eames' field of vision, wearing a smile that was positively wicked. "I'm sure I can make you last a little longer than that."

Eames should have known Arthur would be great at blowjobs. He wasn't quite sure how he should have known, but he should have. The sneaky bastard knew just where to apply pressure, when to hold back and when to stay still, drawing what should have been a ten second affair out into _minutes_.

By the end of it, it was Eames who'd been reduced to a pleading mess. It took him several heartbeats to recover himself enough to remember his own name, much less where he was and why. He worked his way unsteadily up onto his elbows, but quickly sank back down onto the bed — his muscles felt like jelly.

"Arthur," Eames said, knowing he had to be grinning like a loon, "I am impressed."

"Was that condescension?" he heard Arthur say, without the slightest hint of annoyance or worry. The mattress dipped slightly as he left to get something and before Eames could protest he was back with a damp cloth and a wicked, though tired, glint in his eyes.

The cleanup was almost as fun as making the mess.

After that Eames must have dozed off. He came back to awareness one sense at a time; the smell of a warm body next to him, the pleasant soreness of minor bruises, the sound of even breathing, the sight of Arthur fast asleep and looking relaxed for the first time in weeks. Only taste was a bit of a disappointment — at least he felt no urge to be sick.

He didn't dwell in bed. Well, not too long. A person could indulge themselves a bit when they'd finally reached a goal six years in the making, couldn't they? But eventually nature called and he had to get up.

Outside in the bar Yusuf lay snoring on the couch, his cat nestled on his chest. However, someone was awake and in the kitchenette area. The smell of not-burnt bacon told Eames it wasn't a friendly burglar.

"Had a good night?" Ariadne asked, sounding far too smug at six in the morning.

"Shut up," Eames said, very willing to humor her. In fact if a police officer had knocked on the door right then and there, Eames would have kissed them. Possibly to see exactly how possessive Arthur could get when given the right incentive.

"You've got that evil smile on your face," Ariadne pointed out, giving him a meaningful nod. She was still smiling.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Eames said, his grin growing wider.

Arthur stumbled in fifteen minutes later, bleary eyed and smiling. Wordlessly he grabbed a plate, got himself some breakfast, and sat down next to Eames. At Ariadne's inquiring look he sighed, rolled his eyes — still smiling, though he'd never admit that — and gave Eames a peck on the cheek. Eames nearly choked on his scrambled eggs.

"You're going to find every way possible to mess with me, aren't you?" he said to Arthur, beaming like the sun.

"Only as much as you are," came Arthur's reply.

At that moment thoughts of Others were very far from Eames' mind. He really, really could get used to this.

"Anything new come in while we were busy?" Arthur said, aiming for neutral and almost hitting the mark.

"I'll see if we've gotten any calls," said Ariadne, playing along.

And just like that things went back to normal. Or as normal as things ever got between the lot of them. Eames let his grin die down into a pleased smile. _Good enough for me_. 


End file.
